


Steal Into My Affections Without My Consent

by Pseudonym_I_Anonymous



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander/John if you want to read it that way, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6184675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pseudonym_I_Anonymous/pseuds/Pseudonym_I_Anonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Hamilton is dead months before the Revolution is over.<br/>John Laurens has never gotten this far before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Folie

It is in the wee hours of the night when John Laurens finally manages to find time to settle down and read the letter from Alexander. He has been busy working to recruit more slaves into the army and he swears he can see the end to the war just beyond the horizon. It just needs a little more time.  
  
Although his hands are worn and raw from work, John manages to tear into the letter with renewed energy, excited to see the contents. They had both been so busy lately, with the war they had barely gotten to write. Last he had heard, his friend had helped defeat the British at New York, but that was months ago.  
  
At first he was put off by the envelope's signature. It was a messy scrawl that definitely hadn't belonged to Alexander. Perhaps he'd injured his hand?  
That would be a problem. Alexander's whole career depended on his hands and his ability to churn out letters and documents as fast as possible.  
  
He quickly pulls out a single paper and quickly glances over the first line. It crushes him.  
  
_I regret to inform you that Alexander Hamilton, my husband, is dead._  
  
John can feel his breath catch in his throat and he swallows thickly.  
  
_He died valiantly fending off the British forces on August 1782._  
  
His eyes blur.  
  
_He gave his life to his dream of freedom and his nation._  
  
He could feel bile rising in his throat, threatening to tear through his mouth and with it a scream.

 _He died to build a home. And his death shall not be in vain._  
  
Lights danced in front of him. They threatened to take him to safety, but he could not tear his eyes away from the paper. He kept going. He had to.  
  
His funeral shall be held in one week time in New York at the Schuyler Household.  
  
The letter ends, devoid of emotion. Laurens wonders how long it took Eliza to write this as he re-reads the letter over and over and over again. He does not try to process the information.  
  
He does not have the will power to. Instead he turns his attention to the crackling sound of the hearth and closes his eyes.  
  
  "John, dear, come to bed it's late," Martha says from behind him. John jumps at the interruption, and he grips the letter tighter in his left hand.  
  
"Are you crying?" She reaches out to brush away a tear.  
  
A crack. He slaps the hand away, doesn't want her comfort right now. He longs for someone else.  
  
They stare at each other for a long time. The fire place cracks and the heat illuminates his wife's face. The long years wear down her features and bring layers upon layers of age on what should be a still youthful face. A face contoured with pain and fear.  
  
"I'm... I apologize..," he wipes the tears away with his sleeve, ashamed, "please just go."  
  
Martha nods, and quickly turns to leave his study, but not before one last look. When he finally hears the wooden doors shut behind her, he quickly grabs the letter and tosses it into a drawer in his desk.  
  
With the little energy he has left, he begins to weep.


	2. Held

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was gone so long guys! Honestly I have no excuse and honestly don't know what I was doing, but I go a chapter out and I hope it lives up to your expectations.

Wind howls and throws sheets of snow against New York. One church, in particular, seems to stand out among the rest of the buildings. The room is crowded with friends and family dressed in blacks and painted in sorrow.   
John finds himself a seat in the back as the priest begins to speak.   
"We gather here today to celebrate the life of Alexander Hamilton, who has now returned home to Our God and Father."  
Alexander wasn't a heavily religious man, but he would have hated the serious and slow pace of the funeral. John could already hear him groaning about all the things that he could've been doing instead.   
"There's a war going on. The faster that we end it instead of wasting time on pleasantries, the sooner people stop dying," Alex would've said.   
He could almost picture Alex right now, leaping out of his coffin and storming out of the room. Only dying would have ever stopped Alex from his work. Laurens didn't enjoy being right.   
His head throbbed, begging him to stop thinking about the death, and funerals and Alex.   
Almost as if on cue the crying of a baby cut through his thoughts and the source was one Philip Hamilton.   
Philip Alexander Hamilton, he corrects himself. They had changed the name in response to the-  
The baby gave another sharp scream and John could see Angelica and Eliza struggling to keep him quiet.   
While the priest didn't seem to mind, people began to whisper amongst themselves.   
"Poor dear..."  
"... so young..."   
"A child to boot..."   
He wants to make them shut up, to make them leave her alone.   
Eliza breaks down into a series of harsh and quick sobs. Her father, on the other side of her, begins to run comforting circles around the girl's back. A new layer of sadness seems to settle on top of the old.   
Angelica, in an act of quick thinking, whisks little Philip out of the building. However, it does not stop the building from settling into an awkward quiet. It is almost as if the whole world stops. Hesitating on what to do next, where to go without Alexander.   
John wanted to cry, as loud and hard as Elizabeth. However, he'd had his tears, from his home all the way to New York. He cried until the whole world knew of his sorrows and there was not a tear left in him.   
Instead, he settles for hurriedly following Angelica out of the building. 

The wind howls, dampening the noise from inside, but the snow seems to take pity, lightning itself up just enough to make it bearable to stand outside.   
He could see Angelica and Philip in the distance. Philip no longer crying and instead cooing at his aunt.  
"I don't know how to help her," Angelica says, not looking up from Philip, "I told myself I was going to be strong, but when I saw her. When I saw her, I saw reality."   
John walks over, his hands shaking, from the grief or the cold he did not know. It does not matter.   
Philip makes a happy gurgling noise at the sight of John and John gives him a tired smile.   
"There's no making this better," he says. They lock eyes, understanding passing between them.   
Angelica pushes Philip into John's arms and John just nods in response.  
"I'm sorry," she whispers before running back into the building. Neither of them could hold Alexander, neither of them had that right when he was alive and no one could have it now that Alex was dead.   
"I understand," he says, but she's too far away to hear it.   
He holds Philip in the snow until the funeral is over.


End file.
